


Other Fish in the Sea (And Under the Pillow)

by Philipa_Moss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-18
Updated: 2011-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-19 13:33:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philipa_Moss/pseuds/Philipa_Moss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It wasn’t some cunning plan,” says Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Other Fish in the Sea (And Under the Pillow)

Amanda smells nice, and for the past fifteen minutes she has had her hand resting casually on the bulge in John’s trousers. At first he thinks it is some horrible mistake and he does everything he can to avoid moving and drawing her attention to it. He sits perfectly still in the darkening back seat of the cab and recites the human skeleton in his head. Then she gives it an appreciative little squeeze and it is perfectly clear that, far from mistaking it for an armrest, Amanda is perfectly aware of what she is doing. Now it is everything John can do not to shout at the cabbie to step on it.

It has been months— _months_ —since John has had anything but a stifled wank and it’s beginning to affect his mind. Just last Monday he woke up so horny that he wandered through the day in a haze of lust, storing the sugar and teabags in the refrigerator and attempting to swipe his driving license instead of his Oyster card. The limp even threatened to return until Sherlock dragged him on an ultimately fruitless high-speed chase all over London.

Amanda is someone Lestrade introduced John to, with a sympathetic grin and a shrug. Amanda works part-time at the Met and is an aspiring actress. John shudders to think what Sherlock would find to say about her, but Sherlock is gone. He left this morning, off to the country to visit Mummy under duress, and John has the flat to himself for three days. John would never dream of bringing anyone home with Sherlock in London. John may not be a genius, but he is no fool.

When they arrive back at Baker Street, John pays the cabbie and Amanda stands behind him, one hand resting on his back. It occurs to John that she has been touching him more or less constantly since the second course. Any remaining uncertainties flee. She is a sure thing.

John has the idea that Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t necessarily approve of Amanda, so he holds a finger to his lips as they cross the threshold and mount the stairs. Amanda has taken one of his hands and does not release it when they get to the door, so John unlocks the flat one-handed and allows Amanda to lead him in. He manages to get the door shut before she is tugging him over to the couch and attempting to simultaneously divest him of his shirt and belt.

“Hold on,” he says, “hold on,” and he moves his hands to still hers.

“What’s wrong?” Amanda asks. Her eyes are wide and brown and amazing and for a second John considers just saying the hell with it. But he can’t quite shake the image of Sherlock sitting on the couch, curled up on the couch, flinging himself down on the couch, pummeling the cushions of the couch. It’s Sherlock’s couch, and this seems odd.

“My room’s upstairs,” says John. “We should go there.”

“Suits me,” says Amanda, one hand fully reaching down the front of John’s trousers. “Lead on.”

Upstairs, Amanda begins to strip. She loses her shirt on the landing and once they are inside John’s room she is magically down to her bra and panties. All of a sudden John’s fingers are the size of sausages and he curses as he fumbles with buttons. Amanda gives him a saucy grin, says, “Take your time. I’ll just keep myself occupied,” and throws herself onto his bed.

There is a wet squelching sound.

Amanda is up in a flash. “What the fuck is that?” she exclaims, and yanks back the duvet.

The undeniable smell of fish fills the room. John peers over her shoulder to see, sure enough, four large fish, arranged from left to right in ascending state of decay, resting in the middle of John’s bed.

Amanda’s voice is shaking. At first John thinks she is frightened, but then he realizes she is almost too angry to speak. “I thought you were a normal guy,” she says.

“I am!” John protests, his trousers around his knees and his shirt half unbuttoned.

But Amanda is already gathering her clothes. “I’m no prude,” she says, “but this is too much.” Her face twists. “Don’t you _smell that_?”

“I don’t know how they got there!” John exclaims, even though he is fairly sure he does.

“Look,” says Amanda, pulling her skirt on, “you seem nice. Let’s just pretend this never happened.”

“Can’t we just,” John begins, before realizing that he has no idea how to finish that sentence.

“No,” says Amanda firmly. “No.” She gestures at the fish. “You knew I was a vegetarian.”

“ _I don’t know how they got there._ ”

“I don’t see anyone else here,” says Amanda, and then she storms out the door and down the stairs. The flat door slams below, and he hears a muffled and shrill, “I hope the five of you are very happy together!” as she departs.

John is left staring down at the fish. He pulls his trousers back up and begins to re-button his shirt, but then he notices his phone on the floor and all other thoughts vanish from his mind. He picks it up and sends a text: _WHY_

There is no reply, and the smell is really beginning to be too much, so John dials Sherlock’s number and walks downstairs.

Somewhere in the flat a phone begins to ring.

The sound disappears as quickly as it began, but it came from behind Sherlock’s closed bedroom door. John walks over and wrenches it open and there is Sherlock, sitting on the edge of his bed, phone in one hand and computer balanced on his knees looking, if John could believe Sherlock Holmes capable of such an expression, faintly sheepish. “Hello, John,” he says.

“What are you doing here?” John asks, fully aware of how tired and resigned he sounds and not very sure he can be arsed to do anything about it. Sometimes having a conversation with Sherlock is an exercise in futility.

“Some vegetarians eat fish,” Sherlock says.

“What?”

“Only I heard what your friend said and her basic premise was faulty. Some vegetarians eat fish and you weren’t to know that she wasn’t one of them.” Sherlock shifts uneasily. “Her voice was quite loud at that point.”

“I don’t care what kind of vegetarian she is,” John says, “and she’s not my friend. Right now I’m wondering what four bloody great fish are doing in my bed.”

“Experiment,” says Sherlock.

“But why are they in _my_ bed?”

“I wasn’t very well going to put them in my own bed, was I?” says Sherlock, as if a) it is the most obvious thing in the world and b) John is a fool for thinking otherwise.

“Are you sure it wasn’t to…” John trails off, unsure how to proceed. Instead: “What are you doing here?” he repeats.

Sherlock puts his computer aside and stretches. “Mummy was called away at the last minute. She refuses to use the telephone, and Mycroft did not deign to inform me of this fact until I had reached Chelmsford. He had a car waiting. We,” Sherlock pauses and narrows his eyes, “talked.”

“And he drove you back here when?” John asks.

“You had gone.”

“Yes, I know,” John says. “Why didn’t you let me know you were back?”

“I had intended to, but…” He gestures vaguely. “I was occupied.”

“By the fish.”

“Yes.”

“By putting the fish in my bed.”

“Yes, if you insist.”

“And you didn’t think to—” John breaks off to rub his hands over his face. Of course Sherlock didn’t think to call John and warn him. Sherlock doesn’t think at all. Not about things like that. John sinks down to sit beside Sherlock. “You really have no idea, do you, how badly I wanted to get off tonight.”

“She wasn’t worth your time,” Sherlock says. “I heard you come in. She teeters on her heels. She isn’t used to wearing them. She prefers a sensible shoe. The only thing less reliable than a woman who favors high-heeled shoes is a woman who doesn’t and still thinks that a man will prefer her taut calves and buttocks and a gait like a drunken babysitter.”

John gapes. “I’m quite fond of taut calves and buttocks, myself.” It was all he could think of to say.

“She isn’t reliable,” Sherlock replies. “You deserve better.” And then he says nothing.

They sit there in silence. Sherlock’s phone beeps and he sends off a quick text. John is fairly sure he has just written _fuck. off. SH_ , but he can’t be certain. “Sherlock,” John begins, but again he doesn’t know what to say.

“What is it, John?” Sherlock asks. His eyes are still on his phone but John knows he’s done texting.

No way out but through. “You didn’t put the fish in my bed to stop things with Amanda, did you? Tell me it wasn’t some cunning plan.”

“It wasn’t some cunning plan,” says Sherlock. He puts the phone down on top of his computer on the bedside table. He turns on the bed to face John and crosses his legs.

“Are you just saying that because I told you to,” says John.

“Now you don’t want me to say it?”

“I want you to tell me the truth.”

Sherlock sighs. “John, I had no way to knowing that you would not be alone when you returned tonight. As soon as I heard you getting out of the cab, of course, I knew. It made perfect sense. I was an idiot not to have seen it before. But Mycroft has a way of insinuating himself into my thought process given a significant period of time with which to work, and I was in the midst of deleting the better part of our conversation when I heard the two of you outside. I had already placed the fish in your bed. It was not part of some plot.”

John nods slowly. Yes, that makes sense. “Where am I expected to sleep while this experiment runs its course?”

Sherlock blinks. “Here, of course,” as if there is no question.

Of course. “And where will you sleep?”

“There is a new case. I won’t sleep.”

“Sherlock, you need to sleep.”

“An hour or two on the couch will be sufficient.”

John shrugs. “Well, this is not how I planned on spending my evening, and please do not think that I am condoning experimenting in my room ever again, but thank you.”

Sherlock nods. “You’re welcome.”

It is one in the morning before John can drift off, and he only sleeps for a few hours before he is jolted awake (out of an uneasy dream featuring mermaids in the middle of a poppy field). The mattress has shifted. “Sherlock?”

“Go back to sleep,” Sherlock says. And then, to the unspoken question, “I forgot that I put the fifth fish in the couch.”

“Of course,” says John, but he does manage to fall asleep to the tune of Sherlock’s even breathing. When he next wakes, it is to sun slanting in at an unfamiliar angle. It takes him a few moments to remember that he’s in Sherlock’s room and that that arm thrown over his hip and dangling dangerously close to his morning erection belongs to Sherlock.

“Good morning,” says Sherlock against the back of his neck.

“Yes, erm, good morning,” says John. “Look, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about and it’s really your fault for not letting me, um, well… I’ve got this…”

Sherlock pushes himself up on one elbow and peers over John’s side. “Oh. Well, John, you’re a medical man. And I’m a man of science. Your genitalia and what you do or do not do with it is of no interest to me.”

A few hours of sleep must have made him bold, because John replies without thinking, “I thought I told you to tell me the truth.”

Sherlock is silent.

“Fish in the couch. Do you think I’m that thick?”

“No,” says Sherlock quickly.

“What do you expect to happen now?”

Sherlock is silent again and it crosses John’s mind that a brain unaccustomed to answering such questions might actually overload at the hint of something this new. Perhaps he has broken Sherlock! John turns so that they are facing each other.

Sherlock is impossible to read. “I hadn’t thought,” says Sherlock.

“Bollocks,” says John.

“I find you incredibly difficult to predict,” says Sherlock. “At times,” he amends.

“And you,” says John, “are thoroughly predictable.” He licks his lips. “To me.”

“She was wrong for you,” says Sherlock. “I don’t regret it.”

“I knew it!” crows John.

“Yes, well.”

“You’re not reliable,” says John.

Sherlock looks momentarily lost.

“You said yesterday,” says John, “that Amanda wasn’t reliable enough for me. You said I could do better. You’re not incredibly reliable yourself.”

“I am,” says Sherlock.

“Predictable and reliable are not the same thing,” says John.

Sherlock’s brow furrows. “Give me time.”

“To prove me wrong?”

“To become reliable.”

John thinks maybe that at age forty he is experiencing an entirely new feeling. It is more difficult than ever to find the words to say what he wants. He has never had that trouble before. Perhaps people _can_ change. “Yes,” he says. “All right.”

Sherlock beams.

Tentatively, John kisses him. “I’ve got time,” he says.

“Good,” says Sherlock quietly. He clears his throat, collects himself. “Good. Because the experiment runs indefinitely.”

John laughs. Those bloody fish. “There might be a slight smell problem.” He can see Mrs. Hudson now, hand clapped to cover her nose and mouth, delivering tea and cakes.

Sherlock shifts closer. “That’s not the experiment I meant,” he says. He takes John’s hand. “Are you in?”

John doesn’t have to think at all. The words are there. “I’m in.”


End file.
